vell?’
‘Fairly well. I spent a lot of time up here once. Why don’t you get into a taxi, and ask to be driven there?’
‘I have done it, but the so-stupid men say they know not of Sheerland Road.’
That was not to be wondered at, thought Carter, since the name was mispronounced, though London taxi drivers are generally cute enough to discover where their fares wish to go, no matter how they mispronounce names.
‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ advised Carter. ‘Go to Waterloo Underground Station and take a train by the Bakerloo line to Warwick Avenue or Maida Vale. Then you can ask. Someone will be sure to put you right – it is bound to be near either of those two stations.
Modjeska still looked doubtful. His companion could understand how he felt. Alone in London with the object of obtaining information, unable to ask outright for assistance, for fear of the risk he might incur by doing so, he was certainly in an unenviable position. To him Carter, with revolutionary doctrines akin to his own, must have appeared a regular godsend. The Secret Service man was now certain of one thing – that Casaroli had been the only agent of the anarchists in London. Since he was dead, Modjeska had no one to look to. It was rather a puzzle to know from whom he expected to obtain the information of which he was in search. Then Carter remembered the ice cream man living in the basement of the house in Shirland Road. No doubt Modjeska knew of his existence, and would go to him with some specious story, hoping thereby to learn a good deal about the raid. It was doubtful whether the Italian would possess the really important knowledge which the anarchist emissary wanted. He was not likely to be aware of the results, if any, of the police search, and obviously Modjeska’s greatest anxiety was to know if they had found anything that would lead them tosuspect the existence of a vast anarchist organisation. The Pole leant towards Carter.
‘Could you not take me to this Sheerland Road?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you think I have anything better to do than wander round London looking for obscure roads?’ returned the Englishman disagreeably.
‘It vill be a kindness that I vill mooch appreciate.’
‘Why should I do anyone a kindness? No one has ever bothered to be kind to me.’
‘Ah! Perhaps then I vill have the pleasure of repairing that so-sad omission.’
Carter laughed harshly.
‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘I suppose you are saying that to get me to find this Sheerland Road of yours. Well, look here, Mr – I don’t know your name—’
‘It is Modjeska – Ivan Modjeska.’
‘Well, Mr Modjeska, let me tell you that I don’t want your help – see! I’ll assist you to get to Sheerland Road, if there is such a place. After that, I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. That’s plain, isn’t it?’
‘You grieve me, my friend. You are too vat you English call John Blunt, is it not? And for you I have conceive the liking.’ He leant forward again. ‘Vat vould you say if I told you that I might be able to get you a job in vich your hatred of kings and governments vould be of mooch use?’
Carter sat bolt upright. Had he deceived the Pole so completely and gained his trust so absolutely that he was about to take him into his confidence? It certainly looked like it. He glanced round uneasily towards the door, as though fearful that they might be overheard. They still had the lounge to themselves.
‘You mean—?’ he muttered, looking his companion full in the eyes.
‘Never mind what I mean – now,’ was the significant reply. ‘Afterwards ve vill talk – yes? Come now, ve vill find this Sheerland Road.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Mysterious Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne
Carter was on his guard more than ever now that Ivan Modjeska seemed to have accepted him as the discontented, sullen seditionist he appeared to be. They walked to the Underground station, and went by the Bakerloo line to Warwick Avenue. On
‘Fairly well. I spent a lot of time up here once. Why don’t you get into a taxi, and ask to be driven there?’
‘I have done it, but the so-stupid men say they know not of Sheerland Road.’
That was not to be wondered at, thought Carter, since the name was mispronounced, though London taxi drivers are generally cute enough to discover where their fares wish to go, no matter how they mispronounce names.
‘I’ll tell you what to do,’ advised Carter. ‘Go to Waterloo Underground Station and take a train by the Bakerloo line to Warwick Avenue or Maida Vale. Then you can ask. Someone will be sure to put you right – it is bound to be near either of those two stations.
Modjeska still looked doubtful. His companion could understand how he felt. Alone in London with the object of obtaining information, unable to ask outright for assistance, for fear of the risk he might incur by doing so, he was certainly in an unenviable position. To him Carter, with revolutionary doctrines akin to his own, must have appeared a regular godsend. The Secret Service man was now certain of one thing – that Casaroli had been the only agent of the anarchists in London. Since he was dead, Modjeska had no one to look to. It was rather a puzzle to know from whom he expected to obtain the information of which he was in search. Then Carter remembered the ice cream man living in the basement of the house in Shirland Road. No doubt Modjeska knew of his existence, and would go to him with some specious story, hoping thereby to learn a good deal about the raid. It was doubtful whether the Italian would possess the really important knowledge which the anarchist emissary wanted. He was not likely to be aware of the results, if any, of the police search, and obviously Modjeska’s greatest anxiety was to know if they had found anything that would lead them tosuspect the existence of a vast anarchist organisation. The Pole leant towards Carter.
‘Could you not take me to this Sheerland Road?’ he asked.
‘Don’t you think I have anything better to do than wander round London looking for obscure roads?’ returned the Englishman disagreeably.
‘It vill be a kindness that I vill mooch appreciate.’
‘Why should I do anyone a kindness? No one has ever bothered to be kind to me.’
‘Ah! Perhaps then I vill have the pleasure of repairing that so-sad omission.’
Carter laughed harshly.
‘You!’ he exclaimed. ‘I suppose you are saying that to get me to find this Sheerland Road of yours. Well, look here, Mr – I don’t know your name—’
‘It is Modjeska – Ivan Modjeska.’
‘Well, Mr Modjeska, let me tell you that I don’t want your help – see! I’ll assist you to get to Sheerland Road, if there is such a place. After that, I don’t want to have anything more to do with you. That’s plain, isn’t it?’
‘You grieve me, my friend. You are too vat you English call John Blunt, is it not? And for you I have conceive the liking.’ He leant forward again. ‘Vat vould you say if I told you that I might be able to get you a job in vich your hatred of kings and governments vould be of mooch use?’
Carter sat bolt upright. Had he deceived the Pole so completely and gained his trust so absolutely that he was about to take him into his confidence? It certainly looked like it. He glanced round uneasily towards the door, as though fearful that they might be overheard. They still had the lounge to themselves.
‘You mean—?’ he muttered, looking his companion full in the eyes.
‘Never mind what I mean – now,’ was the significant reply. ‘Afterwards ve vill talk – yes? Come now, ve vill find this Sheerland Road.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Mysterious Wilmer P. H. Hawthorne
Carter was on his guard more than ever now that Ivan Modjeska seemed to have accepted him as the discontented, sullen seditionist he appeared to be. They walked to the Underground station, and went by the Bakerloo line to Warwick Avenue. On
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